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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27834169">Moonlit whispers (and our death in sight)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorfulcharades/pseuds/colorfulcharades'>colorfulcharades</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And they were soulmates, Berlermo, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mention of scars, Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Gestures, Touching, basically just nsfw but make it feels, non-graphic we love poetic in this house, oh my god they were soulmates, top/bottom but nothing drastic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:08:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27834169</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorfulcharades/pseuds/colorfulcharades</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He had a masterpiece underneath his hands.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa &amp; Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Moonlit whispers (and our death in sight)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isabelu_u/gifts">Isabelu_u</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ele_amato/gifts">ele_amato</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=berlermo+gc">berlermo gc</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>cw: nsfw</p><p>The title is a line from @Isabelu_u's poem, check her out on twitter she is fantastic&lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martín often thinks to himself that Andrés de Fonollosa must have been made.</p><p>How so? The thought in its entirety confused him at first, comparing a beloved to an artificial thing; yet at times had seemed more logical and palpable than all the equations and theories he had spent years dedicating himself to. If he could search through all books of this world, through every science’s explanation and every nature’s force, wouldn’t he find something worthy of comparing Andrés to?</p><p>He wouldn’t, that much he is sure of; art had never been made by nature, wasn’t born from a mother, wasn’t raised by a father nor bound by laws and orders, wasn’t confined to the four narrow walls of human comprehension. It had existed on it’s own, he thinks as a warm hand draws patterns on his clavicle; and it had walked into his life nearly a decade ago, no questions asked nor promises made. </p><p>Regardless, Martín had let it in, invited it to become an inseparable part of himself, relished in every second of Andrés’ presence as if it was the last joy he would ever be allowed to feel. </p><p>Perhaps it’s too arrogant for a man to compare his lover to art itself, yes, but it was not hard to imagine an unknown sculptor crafting with care that beautiful face, the arch of his brow, the hollow of his cheeks; it was easy to think the darkness of his eyes was painted with a finest brush, fingers tracing over the crook of  his smile like Martín himself was doing now. He was a lot, he was too much, more than a man could ever be, more than nature could ever hope to create. </p><p>A masterpiece. That was the only word with which Martín could ever associate him. </p><p> </p><p>He had a masterpiece underneath his hands. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You’re thinking again, querido”.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A smile gives way when a low voice’s whisper reaches his ear, and he places a gentle hand on the side of Andrés' face. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Have you seen yourself? You can’t blame me for zoning out, Andrés, anyone would if they looked at you. I can’t count the number of people who were staring at you on the street every time-” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And there it is, a laugh he would kill and die for. He can’t help a chuckle in response.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “But only you look at me this way”.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “That’s true” </em>Martín admits, to himself and to Andrés and to all once suppressed wishes, and leans close to leave fluttering kisses along his jawline.</p><p>The reaction is immediate, if not surprising; Andrés’ fingers gripping at his shoulder, a gasp leaving through parted lips. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Kiss me”.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And he does, with all the raw passion he spent too much time holding back, lips taking hold of  Andrés’ own in a bold invite to seek more. He feels him compliant in the most pleasant of ways, tender movement and low sounds disappearing between their lips, burning flavor of old wine lingering on his tongue when Martín moves to taste. </p><p>When he parts, the eyes can’t look elsewhere; not when Andrés' lips are left tinted gorgeous red; shallow breaths warm against his skin and eyes focused on his face glistening with unspoken desire. </p><p>Shifting his position, he allows his hands to roam, caressing over the wild of his hair, the smooth edges of his body, fingertips digging crimson flowers in between his ribs and <em> oh, </em>heavens have mercy to the sound Andrés makes for him to hear. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Martín-" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The fire behind his eyes burns with satisfaction of the tone with which he whispers his name.</p><p>It's rewarding, overwhelming, as everything of Andrés is-the most delicate shivers beneath Martín's open palms, that voice he's so weak for, breaking into a sweet sound every once in a while; the arch of his body pressing them close, the sheets, first crumpled between closed fists, then fingers digging purple skies into the skin of Martín's shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He doesn't know what to do with his hands.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “A little restless, hm?” </em>he asks in a whisper, not millimeters away from Andrés’ ear.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Maybe I should consider tying your hands up next time? You don’t seem to dislike that, Andrés”. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>In response, a breathless laugh.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Maybe…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Then he finds anchor on the back of Martín's neck and pulls down, surprisingly, almost desperately, moving them closer until their lips meet halfway. He moans, drowned between their mouths as their hands intertwine, and then Martín is pulling away again, taking hold of both his wrists to hold them against the mattress. The lack of warmth is harrowing, but the sensation sends shivers down his spine and Andrés can do little more than strain against the warm hand, desperate to touch, desperate to melt right into the feeling of Martín's body all over himself. </p><p>Yet he is not allowed.</p><p>A surge of sudden pleasure stops him in his tracks-the pressure of Martín's leg between his own-and he falls back against the cold sheets with a shaky breath torn from his mouth. The pressure doesn’t stop, heightening in earnest; his restrained hands cling to every part of Martín's fingers that he can reach, delirium taking over and all senses slowly fading, washed out and unfocused and disappearing into flames to burn him alive, body and soul. </p><p> </p><p>What is left after the fire would belong to Martín only.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t take seconds for their eyes to meet again, more an accident of his restless body than anything else, and there is something familiar in the way Martín is smiling at him from above.  </p><p>He’s seen it before, in memories he holds dear, too many of them rushing back at once: that heist they pulled a few years ago <em> (the one in Venezia, god) </em>and the way first morning's lights illuminated an engineer’s face, a confusing pull in his heart when he saw him, all satisfaction and contagious arrogance in the aftermath of a brilliant plan succeeding. </p><p> </p><p>He might have fallen in love then, maybe, he isn't sure. </p><p>Or he might have been in love all along. </p><p> </p><p>Just the sight of them like this makes him look on, bite his lip to silence a plea; for Martín is a marvel, gentle and devilish, somehow, at the same time; he looks like all the power of this world belongs to him and him alone, and Andrés knows, he <em> feels, </em>that if Martín only said one word, only so much as asked in that moment, he would give up everything of himself.</p><p>The name is like a mantra he is intent on repeating; a poor attempt to help him remain sane.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Martín-"  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> "Hush..." </em> barely a whisper at his ear, one hand caressing down his stomach as the other still holds his hands in place;</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "...let me".  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The sentence sounds certain, neither an order nor a plea, and he gasps when a hand moves lazily between them, low over the arches of his waist and <em> lower</em>, and when the first touch sends a shiver through a body he loves so much, Martín leans down to steal a passionate kiss as Andrés' lips part into a moan. </p><p>It's no more than a gorgeous second at first before every sensation unfolds before him, each and every one of them being <em> Andrés,</em> warm and excited in his hand, sweet voice rising and falling in a delicate pitch, tugging at the strings of his desire over and over and over again. Nothing short of music to his ears.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And what a masterpiece, truly. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Reality had long since blurred into dream, and he allows himself to trace a sweet caress over Andrés' lips. A sigh parts them open, reddened from kisses and inviting, compelling him to see more, to <em> do more, </em>almost immediately.</p><p>And he does, god, <em> he wants it so bad, </em>to cherish the sound of his voice, the tremble he feels beneath the skin, and then the welcoming warmth of Andrés’ mouth, of his tongue meeting the fingertips. Martín is rendered speechless for heavens know which time that night, unable to look away, fixated above, beyond, on a picture coming alive beneath him. </p><p>He knows now, or perhaps he had always known, how impossible Andrés had made the simple task of looking away. All Martín's supposed composure, all thoughts that have been in neat order not long ago had now scattered, by the wind, in a thousand different directions. His eyes could not listen either, no, they had gotten desperately drunk on the sight of Andrés' back arching, his fingers in Andrés' mouth, short hair in disarray and delicious red on his lips, on his cheeks, Andrés, <em> Andrés- </em></p><p> </p><p>Martín was going mad, maybe. Probably.</p><p> </p><p>It was not often that desperation left him with a sense of such urgency, as if there was not time enough in the entire world for this, but perhaps he could pretend that the night would be so kind as to stretch into eternity. Andrés had that power that nobody else did, that frightening ability to render him yearning for nothing except this, just this heaven for a little while longer. He had bitten into forbidden fruit years ago, and now the devil on his shoulder had wanted one thing only. </p><p>Temptation doesn’t wait a second to take hold of him, leaning down over Andrés' body to reach his neck, faded cologne's scent sinking through his senses. Perhaps it's instinct more than anything that leads his lips over the sensitive skin, towards a raspy moan he had never once been able to forget. The body trembles beneath his touch, faint ticking of his pulse growing fast and shallow. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Martín…-" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>But Martín doesn't respond, doesn't care about stopping or allows himself to think of it, instead quickly following the first kiss with another, then another, until his lips and tongue have left a messy trail down to his shoulder and Andrés' voice rises into a cry.  </p><p>It does nothing but encourage him further, reaching to worship every bit of exposed skin, collecting sound after sound of that bewitching voice into a little gilded box in the deepest of his memory.</p><p>The teeth follow suit; biting a path of light crimson all over Andrés' chest, soothing the burn with a caress of his lips, slowly descending. He stops on the place where Andrés' ribcage meets the narrow of his waist, sucking light bruises where his beloved is most sensitive, hoping to get drunk on the breathy sounds echoing throughout the room, embracing him tightly.</p><p> </p><p>He half-expected Andrés to root his hands on his own body, attempt to keep any kind of composure, to pretend, like always, that he could take hold of everything on his own. They had worked like that for the longest time-Andrés evading his own humanity, Martín evading him in turn because he knew and understood it all, felt on his own skin how surreal it had been, learning to be human, learning to let go; embracing imperfection after a life spent pretending.  </p><p>Maybe that was the reason why Martín loved nothing more than this-to take him, feel him, make every trace of that carefully built composure disappear; if he had loved him enough, maybe, Andrés would learn what it means to be free.</p><p>He hadn’t expected compliance at first, let alone a trace of willingness, but Andrés had long since stopped being what Martín expected. From the first tear he had seen his eyes shed, to the night when he first kissed him back, and moments like these, overwhelmed with sensations and with Andrés’ hips moving in a broken rhythm against Martín's hand, grabbing the sheets beside his pillow as if his life would end if he let them go. </p><p> </p><p>The sight is mesmerizing, it  always is. It always leaves him wishing to see more.</p><p> </p><p>He is everywhere and nowhere all at the same time, lips kissing low across the little scars left on Andrés’ waist-letters of past failures, he had cried for every single one-and moves to drag his mouth over the juncture of a pelvis. The touches get slower, torturous.</p><p>And the next moment is the one where he stops completely, for a longest second-all the time needed for Andrés’ voice to break in need-before moving to replace his hands with the warmth of his mouth, taking sweet time as his hold grows possessive.</p><p>Andrés calls his name once, in a voice that may never leave his mind again, and the following words disperse into a mess of wanton cries and desperate intakes of air.</p><p>It's warm, all warm and red and precious, the shivers of electricity all over his skin, the arousal that blooms, unbothered, through every cell of his body. He wants more, he knows it, yet isn’t sure if this feeling only is too much for him to take. </p><p>Martín holds him like he had never held another person in his life, like he had never met the heat and desire of another human being before Andrés' confident steps had crossed his path. He loves the taste, the shape, the beauty of it all; how Andrés’ voice comes undone, how his hands grip the silky sheets in desperation, free of restraint yet unsure of what to do or where to hold. He loves that he is the only one who can do things like this to him; loves the way they both are beings of their own, yet Andrés belongs to him, and he belongs to Andrés, too. </p><p> </p><p>His firm grip is digging red marks all across the fragile body, while neither of them cares enough to part and Andrés is moving in a rhythm laced with desperation, trying to make the friction just a little stronger, trying to reach the moment when he could finally let go of all the pent-up pressure Martín was so determinedly building inside him. He feels warm, <em> so warm </em>that the chilly air of approaching winter is close to non-existent, and the voice breaking through thin air couldn’t be his own, dim lights dancing across his vision are not real, nothing is, nothing except the image of just how perfect Martín must look right now, how beautifully satisfied, how eager to have him like this he had always been, how full of that pure, near extinct form of maddening love that Andrés knew he was feeling just the same. He is closer, and with every burning touch he resists it less and less; Martín knows him too well.</p><p>Of course he does, Martín knows everything-he knows just how to break him right. He is smart, a mind unmatched even through the fury burning in his every step; he is majestic, he is warm yet freezing at the same time; a most fascinating mix of clever soul and emotional mind, of most skilled, hardworking hands and lips struggling to stop talking; of beautiful dawn following the darkest night and most breathtaking colors hiding among rows and rows of numbers<em>. A god, </em>that’s what he had to be, something otherworldly, something unexplained; a maestro and his music bordering between heaven and hell, a presence captivating this whole wide world ever since he saw him for the first time. </p><p>He can’t take it anymore, not with the knowledge that this man can do so much to him.</p><p>This man, like no one else could, this man to whom everything paled in comparison. A genius. His genius, his Martín, </p><p> </p><p> Martín, <em> Martín- </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "Martín..!" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It surprises him, how strongly it takes over; how the world spins to a halt and nothing except that name exists anymore, how he knows, since the start, that he can only give up to it completely, rendering his mind to a white blur and his ears to distant ringing. </p><p>His precious engineer’s voice is what calls him back, what makes his breathing slow to a calm and his mind sink into the first pull of the aftermath. The body searches for beloved as soon as he returns, and he is left clinging to the first sight of Martín his blurry senses can make out, embracing his shoulders with all the longing an ordinary man could never quite understand, whispering the only name he remembers like a sinner learning to pray to the gods for the first time. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Andrés…" </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Their eyes find each other, and he is closest to divine Martín has ever seen, all sun-painted warmth and clouds over his vision; a figure to be worshipped. </p><p>His fingers find the back of Andrés’ head, running through the short curls with soothing fondness in his hands. The response is immediate, a slight sensation from his hand when Andrés leans into it, perhaps someway alike to a sleepy cat.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Are you okay? Tired?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “Not yet” </em>he whispers in response, though he knows he might be lying, and rests his face in the crook of Martín's shoulder, planting gentle kisses wherever he can reach. The night is cold outside, quiet save for his own trembling breaths, and the bite of early December air is all too quick to find his undressed body. In response, in defiance, he gets closer to the only place where he ever allowed himself to feel completely safe; finding peace, as he always did, in the calm of Martín's arms.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I want-” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “More?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You. Don’t stop just yet”.  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So good morning happy December and happy belated International sex day to y'all&lt;3</p><p>So first off yes no I haven't slept nearly enough, sorry for grammar mistakes and I hope reading the fic was not a total waste of your time. If by any chance it wasn't, do let me know w some kudos/comments yknow we writers love supportive readers they keep us alive </p><p>This is for ele, a human of culture, the berlermo gc, who are all humans of culture, and of course Isa because Isa is both a human of culture AND the reason why I'm here still bothering to write things yknow</p><p>Anyway good morning to y'all who have slept, Andrés de Fonollosa is a pillow princess, I have nothing more to add, wear your masks, wash your hands and have a pleasant day&lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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